


drifter

by falmarien



Category: Wonder Woman (2017)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-17
Updated: 2019-01-17
Packaged: 2019-10-11 10:30:48
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,103
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17445209
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/falmarien/pseuds/falmarien
Summary: He lived.





	drifter

Dreams weren’t unfamiliar to him. 

People didn’t talk about dreams; they weren’t some cheerful anecdote you tell to amuse or to connect. But he’d heard, here and there, that dreams were in fact quite common in their appearances among people who came back. He doubted all of them to feature the same elements as his, though.

He decided to stay on this side of the pond after the war. In part it was because nothing back there really called to him; there hadn’t been, not in a long time. A photograph, a locket, several letters and a wristwatch were all he had left. As untethered as they came. He’d also begun to have a life here, in a city where its shape and smell had become comforting, with people he was fond of and were fond of him. He often felt too old and too tired than he ought to, but he imagined he couldn’t be the only one. Getting by wasn’t all that hard. He managed. He’d got his people.

Two years after he started staying in that little flat in a neighbourhood with too many unpronounced letters in its name, rented from a nice old lady who lost both her son and her daughter, one of his people drank himself to death. Technically, he drank and fell into the river that happened to be there, but, well, semantics. The funeral was small and grey. And it wasn’t just him. At the time half of the nation were trying—and some, marvellously, succeeding—to pick themselves up, but the other half were slowly drowning, like his good old friend. As for himself? There were times when he wasn’t sure which half he belonged to, a foreigner in this too damp country, measuring wounds with a different set of criteria, but he was still standing, going to one funeral after another.

Another of his people got an offer and travelled across an ocean to be what he always wanted to be; he missed him dearly. He’d made some new friends, sure—like most people, he needed friends to survive. But he couldn’t tell them his dream, because they weren’t there.

And so he lived on, dreamt on, and, occasionally, woke up wondering. He kept the wonder to himself. On those days, he knew there was a name on the tip of his tongue; but it wasn’t something the real world needed to hear.

Of course, he dreamt of other things, too: of drowning, of falling, of drowning and falling and choking. But that wasn’t that uncommon, he assumed. He fared better than many who had trudged through similar paths, he’d still got his senses and his limbs—and they were all intact, at that. The only problem was with his lungs, and living in this country didn’t help much with that. Still, he was relatively alright.

He got married, too. They met in the hospital, a sister of one of his new friends. She had red hair and freckles, was stronger than he could ever imagine being. She was also immeasurably kind. A year and a half later they parted ways. 

He dreamt. Given time, he almost convinced himself that was all it was; a dream. There was no cause to throw your life away for a dream, they said. So many people were slowly drowning in this country, and they told you there wasn’t cause. Suitable words simply weren’t invented for this. Sometimes he would meet people of a certain age, they could often identify some traits in each other, even though they didn’t have proper names for them. In their eyes was kinship, or, fewer times, resentment, but underneath all that there lay a void that was known to them all, familiar, almost reliable, in a manner of speaking. They all learnt to live with it, in it, around it, one way or another. Until they couldn’t.

The languages he spoke brought him back to the continent a few more times. The land was blameless, the people all battered, trying to survive given their circumstances, so he went, and walked, and looked, and thought, well, this isn’t too bad, is it? There were still wonders to be found all over the world. An old friend was at the continent, living around edges of conflict and struggle, the trade in which he excelled. They met up in a small town, not unlike last time. Another friend, the one who now lived in the south where they had beautiful sun, beautiful food and beautiful people, had written to invite him over.

He took up the offer. The weather, the food and the people were all indeed lovely and charming as promised. He travelled about for a bit, reinvigorated, like stretching up to a long walk after a winter in the house, getting to know his muscle again, the feel of the earth underneath his feet; it was the same with his brain, long closed corridors opened up anew, dust and rust slowly swiped away by sun and fresh air. It was life again. Life with not-so-good knees and bad lungs, granted, but life nonetheless. 

All the while he was dreaming of dark hair and golden skin and bright eyes, of poisonous mists, of a sea bluer and greener and clearer than anywhere else in the world. But no one needed to know that.

In his dreams there were sharp lights and noises, and the air smelled like the ocean and some unidentifiable tree, strong and solid and warm, even if he’d long stopped associating oceans with warmth they sounded contradictory in his own mind. He also remembered almost dying, but that was hardly rare, therefore shouldn’t warrant much attention.

Winter came and went, he had now set foot in many previously untraversed places, then his friend sat him down, and gave him a map.

What was this, he didn’t need to ask, the hand-drawn lines speaking directly to his mind, jarring something awake, not painfully, but not painlessly, either.

A small boat was secured for him. His friend sent him off on the dock when he set sail and made him promise to come back even if the trip was to no avail.

It had been some years since he was last on this sea, but today, the Mediterranean felt welcoming. His dreams were dreams he had lived through; that didn’t make them less true. He knew what he believed, and he had friends who believed with him too. Bright colours and warmth awaited. He once saw an angel on the wing among this sea. Now, he was in search of that again.


End file.
